


L'Apôtre De La Lune

by niiventi



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Crimes & Criminals, Friendship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:18:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1399453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niiventi/pseuds/niiventi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco is the son of one of the most successful CEO's in the country. Jean is an assassin with a double identity. When fate tangles them together, they find themselves, and those around them, in a situation more sticky than they expected. (On Hiatus)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pardonnez-Moi

                His breathing was calm and relaxed; heartbeat slow and steady. The metal beams beneath his feet groaned slightly in protest to his weight, and in the mere fraction of a second, he was readjusting himself before the sound could reach anyone’s ears but his own.

                After checking the placement of his feet and taking another slow, cautious step forward, amber eyes flitted down towards the target, locking in place. Jean was the cat, and he was the mouse; unsuspecting and completely oblivious to the imminent danger looming just overhead. 

                The short, balding man was whistling cheerfully, and rather loudly, to himself, unknowingly providing extra cover for Jean if he were to slip up. Which he wouldn’t. He never did.

                He allowed himself a quick, dark smirk before sidling his way around a pipe jutting its way in-between the support beams beneath his boots, wrapping his glove-clad fingers tightly against the slick metal and pushing himself around to the other side.  

                As he continued on, feet arched and hands gripping the beams below, holding himself in place as he crawled forward, the man reached his car at last, bending forward after popping the trunk to dig around, leaving himself, and his back, completely exposed.

               

  _Now._

He slipped from the beams without a sound, landing softly on the soles of his feet and crouching as he came into contact with the cold asphalt below. After removing the knife that he had balanced in between his narrow lips and rising to stand, his expression became ominous as he began to move, intent on his prey.

                His steps were inaudible as he approached, remaining undetected by the man who continued to sift through the confines of the trunk, for something which would cease to hold any relevance in a matter of seconds.

He stopped a foot away from the stout man, twirling the thin stiletto between his slender fingers, eyes pinpointing the exposed skin on the back of his neck.

                As he straightened up, holding in front of him what appeared to be a black, wool coat, Jean snapped into motion; navigating his hand around the man’s broad shoulder, he rapidly snapped his head to the side, using his other to bring the knife around and quickly, and effectively, slash it across the skin of his throat in one swift movement. He hadn’t even had time to gasp.

                He emitted what sounded like a gurgled cry, before becoming dead weight against Jean, arms falling limply to his sides and the coat fluttering, forgotten, back into the trunk. The blood, flowing freely down the front of the man’s dark business suit, splattered against the asphalt below in one sickening gush, and Jean crinkled his nose before gingerly shifting his weight to let the man fall into the trunk of his car with a ‘ _thunk_ ’.

                As he stood back, tucking the dagger back into its sheath beneath his shirt, he raked his eyes over the grisly scene before him; the ground was pooling with blood, glistening in the dim, occasionally flickering lights overhead. A trail of the fluid lead up the tail end of the car, and to the corpse that was spilling it, which was dangling precariously out of the trunk. It’s limbs were sprawled messily, knees buckled together. There was no dignity in this death.

                Sighing, he let his eyes slide closed, his expression somber as he turned away, starting for the exit. “Pardonnez-moi.”

                He'd done this a thousand times before, and this man was no more than another lifeless corpse being tossed along the sidelines of Jean's too-long, blood-soaked path, that single, horrendous mole being the only trait differentiating him from all of his other faceless victims.

                Balancing a cigarette in between his lips, he pulled his phone out of the pocket of his jacket, scrolling until he found the name he was looking for.

                It rang twice.

                “It’s done.” He said around the filter, bringing a lighter up and flicking it, letting the flames lick the end.

                “Good.”

                The call dropped then, and Jean tossed the phone back into its respective place, taking a drag as he stepped out of the parking garage and onto the empty sidewalk.

                White clouds of vapor were stolen from his lips as his warm breath met the frigid air. The heavy wind, which mercilessly ripped through the city, bit at the exposed skin of his face and neck, leaving it stingingly cold.

                Ducking his head further down past the upturned collar of his jacket, he continued on, taking one last hit of his cigarette before flicking it to the side.

                It was time to go home. 


	2. Le Chat et La Souris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Run boy run, This world is not made for you  
> Run boy run, They’re trying to catch you  
> Run boy run, Running is a victory  
> Run boy run, Beauty lays behind the hills
> 
> -WoodKid

                "Robert Bodt?"

                "Yes."

                "What about his son? Fubar said he was there as well, sir."

                "Eliminate the target, don’t be seen. If you _are_ seen, eliminate them as well.”

                "But, th-"

                "Do I need to _repeat_ myself?"

                "....No, sir."

                "Good."

 

* * *

 

                Marco sighed in exhaustion as he sorted the last file into its proper place, raking a hand through his already messy hair before sitting back onto the tiled floor. “Finally done.” He breathed, tilting his head back and rolling it in-between his shoulders in effort to loosen some of the tension that had settled there. He’d been in the same, hunched over stance for nearly thirty minutes; being in any other position now was almost orgasmic.

                How long had he been at this?

                He brought his watch up to eye level, glancing at it.

                It was close to midnight, and the office was still; everyone else having headed home for the evening, to their families and warm beds.

                The silence that blanketed over the space was almost eerie.

                His father, Robert Bodt, had somehow roped him into staying _far_ past the standard business hours to help with additional paper work that needed to be filled out and filed away after a huge surge in sales; legal documents of some sort, Marco wasn't too sure on the details.

                And of course, he had been more than happy to oblige; he didn't get to be around the man as often as he would have liked, so any time he offered something like this, Marco jumped at the chance.

                Though...

                He wouldn't exactly qualify this as 'Father-Son bonding'

                Mr. Bodt was currently hidden away in his office, away from sight, and unfortunately, away from Marco; leaving him alone to do the dirty work and _file papers._

Marco wrinkled his nose, glancing back over at the now tidy filing cabinets in obvious distaste.

                But he wasn’t complaining ( _ok... maybe a little_ ). Because of his father’s position as CEO, he was _more_ than well off, allowing him to breeze through college without ever having to worry about drowning in debt, as so many other's his age did. So, looking at it from that angle, it wasn’t like it would _kill_ him to help out a little; no matter how tedious and boring the tasks were. 

                Arching his back a little, he stretched his hands out in front of him, groaning in relief as the tendons within his arms popped and cracked, before bringing them up to rest on the back of his neck. He tilted his head upwards again, staring at the white marble tiles above.

                _God, it's late. What I wouldn't do for some coffee and actual food right now._

As his thoughts drifted towards the coffee machine in the lobby, and what he remembered to be a vending machine adjacent to it, he became vaguely aware of the creeping sensation of being watched. Subtly, he rolled his head in the direction of his father’s office, playing it off as another tension relieving movement.

                But his father had his back to him; sifting through an assortment of documents strewn about the desk before him.

                Frowning, he looked forward again, dropping his hands from his neck and toying with a loose, frayed thread at the bottom of his sweater. _Must be my imagination._

                But the feeling did not cease.

                Becoming slightly uneasy, he stood, casting an anxious glance around the dim, empty office. His gaze lingered momentarily on a dark corner at the opposite end of the room, the back of his mind telling him that he had seen…. _something_. But after several minutes of staring into the desolate, inky blackness, he turned away, looking behind himself and feeling a little stupid for doing so.

                He had the sudden urge to call out, " _Hello?_ " as he'd seen done a million times over by the stars of every horror movie to date. But he bit it back, nearly laughing at himself.

                _Why am I being so jumpy?_ He thought, opting to ignore it and instead start off in the direction of the lobby. _This entire building is locked down. There's no way anyone could get in here. And even if they did, security is downstairs. They would have stopped them from coming this far up, surely. _

He halted in his tracks, images of a certain scene from ' _The Grudge_ ' filling his mind, and cast another wary look over his shoulder.

                Nothing.

He slapped a hand down over his face as he began walking again, snorting. _Oh my god I'm such an idiot. Maybe I should start listening to Dad and stop watching so many horror movies... _

_...Nahhh._

So caught up in the aspect of some, apparently, much needed caffeine, and laughing at his own expense, he failed to notice the tall, slim figure, tucking itself further into a dark corner as he passed by.

 

* * *

 

 

                As the foot falls faded, finally becoming nothing more than a barely notable tapping in the distance, Jean relaxed from his stock-still position, much resembling that of a cornered cat, hackles raised. Though, apparently, that's what he had become the second that freckled inconvenience had become a little _too_ aware. But, unknowingly saving his own life, he had shrugged it off as nothing, settling to instead go off to wherever it was that he had gone.

                Jean needed to act, and soon.

                Falling back away from the wall that he had accidentally trapped himself against, and into the light, he let his hooded, whiskey eyes do a calculated sweep of the room, insuring himself that he was actually alone. Once he was sure of this, he began moving forward, the target's glass walled office in his sights.

                " _That sounded like a close call_." A soft voice breathed into his ear, causing him to freeze in place, jolting slightly. He thanked the gods, or whoever was out there, that his 'co workers' could only hear him, and not see the miniature heart attack they had just given him. He would more than likely never hear the end of it from a certain emerald eyed bastard if that were not the case.

                "Yeah." He murmured, keeping his voice just above a whisper as he pressed his back against the wall, just to the left of the glass, setting to work on sliding a sleek, silenced M9 from where it had been strapped against his thigh. He'd rather keep this as clean as possible, seeing as it was likely that his own child would find him.

                He felt a pang of regret, his guts twisting uncomfortably.

                _No one should have to go through that._

                As he double checked that the weapon was loaded and ready to go, he clenched his jaw, pushing the feeling aside and concentrating instead on the feel of the chilled handgun that he grasped. "I thought I'd be able to slip past the kid, but then he looked _right_ at me. There wasn't much else to do other than wait it out."

                Reiner’s loud, boisterous voice cut in then, more than likely shoving poor Bertholdt out of the way to get in his two cents, and Jean frantically worked at turning the volume down on the piece before his eardrum’s life was cut short. “ _You say ‘kid’ like he’s that much younger than you, yet you can’t be more than, what, twenty?_ ”

                Jean rolled his eyes as he peered around the wall and through the glass, checking the target's position. He still had his back to him.

                _Perfect._

"Twenty _three_. You're so sweet to remember, babe." With expert fingers, he switched the safety off and cocked it. "Now, will you kindly shut the fuck up? I'm a little busy at the moment."

                There was muffled laughter from the other end. " _Yeah, yeah. I hear ya. Go get em'_." With that, the static in the ear piece cut out, signaling that they had gone offline.

Peeling himself away from the wall and clutching the pistol in both hands, he maneuvered himself in a practiced side step towards the door, eyes trained on the back of the elder Bodt.

                As he reached the door, removing one hand from the weapon and sliding it towards the handle, someone spoke up behind him.

                "Um, hello?"

                Jean whirled, heart beating frantically against his ribs like a caged bird, desperate to escape. The gun was trained in front of him, finger hovering dangerously close to the trigger. His breathing was breathing quick and erratic, the sound foreign to his own ears.

                Jean Kirschtein was never the one snuck up on.

                He found himself standing a mere ten feet away from the target's son.

                He was tall, but only slightly taller than Jean, his disheveled, dark hair standing out in contrast to his lightly tanned skin, which was smattered with an array of freckles, spasmodically strewn across his cheeks and nose. His eyes, which were wide with fear at the moment, were almost as dark as his hair, but glimmered with something more akin to sable in the one, annoying bright fluorescent light just over his head.

                The bag of Doritos that had been grasped in one of his hands slipped from his fingers as he stared back at Jean, his lips parting slightly, and he knew what he was going to do.

                _Shit._

Pulling himself out of his shocked, slack stance, he held the gun straighter, his finger inching towards the trigger, almost as if in slow motion.

                _I didn't want to have to kill you,_

_I'm sorry._

Before he could, though, Robert Bodt's son hurled the scalding drink that had been clutched in his other hand, with surprising accuracy he might add, at him, thoroughly dousing him in coffee, before tearing off in the direction of the stairs at record speed.

                It was almost comical, and Jean would have laughed; had he not been pissed and soaked with still steaming cappuccino.

                _Why do they always have to make it so much harder than it has to be?_

Growling, he began the chase, a deep scowl etched into his features as he tucked the M9 loosely back into it's strap.

                He was more difficult to keep up with than Jean would have ever imagined. _A lot_ more difficult. Who would have guessed that a guy built like that could be packing so much speed? It was sort of impressive, actually. Key words being: _sort of_.

                As they reached the final floor, the new target made a sharp, unexpected turn, causing Jean to crash headlong into a wall in effort to follow.

                Pushing himself away from the wall in fury, he threw himself into a stumbling run with new found, rage driven velocity.

                Finally, they reached the lobby, and he found the poor guy snapping his head in every direction, his stance wide and panicked. He was no doubt looking for the security, who were, if Jean was remembering correctly, which he _was_ due to the endless hours spent memorizing the schedule of this particular building, making their rounds.

                _This is just not your lucky day._

He noticed Jean, then, jerking himself around and emitting a small squeak, before reeling back around and making a dash.

                Straight towards the front doors.

                Jean couldn't help but smirk at his efforts.

                When he found that they were locked, just as Jean knew they would be, he kicked them, pounding on the glass door once with both fists before stilling, and slowly turning to face him.

                His expression was downright terrified, to say the least, and Jean felt a stabbing sensation in his heart as he stared back.

                His eyes were wide, wider than they had been; the look of at least a _glimmer_ of hope at surviving this nightmare void from them. He was trapped; he knew that he was going to die.

                _And that's all because of me._

                He'd never had to do this; stare someone right into their eyes before he killed them. Hell, he usually never even gave them a chance to even turn around, let alone be afraid. They never knew what hit them.

                He preferred it that way. Never having to give a face to his victims, never having to see their fear stricken faces, reminding him of just what kind of person he was. It made it easier to pretend, that way.

                The static in his ear piece picked up again, a voice following shortly after.

                " _I don't know what the fuck you're doing, but you need to hurry up. You're running out of time, and we are way over due. You need to get out of there_. _Now_." The line cut out again.

                Clenching his jaw, his expression grim, he reached for his gun.

                _Orders are orders, after all._

Seeming to pick up on what was about to happen, the man before him, yet again, darted, making a beeline to the left.

                Jean sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

_Kid just doesn't know when to give up, does he?_

               This was about as gut wrenching to watch as seeing a helpless, tiny mouse try to avoid being eaten by the snake that it was caged with for as long as possible.

                It was pathetic.

                A sound to his left, along with a short, relieved cry, had him tearing open his eyes and whirling.

                _A fucking side exit, god dammit all. Why was that not in the fucking blueprints?_

                As the door slammed shut behind him, Jean vacantly considered just letting him go. Freeing the mouse and letting it free, because after all, it had worked so hard.

                But he couldn't do that. That would mean his ass being handed to him on a silver platter by Rivaille, and he definitely wasn't going through _that_ again.

                As he exited the building, gaze darting to the left and right of the alley way he'd stepped out into, he just barely caught the fleeting sight of a leg disappearing behind a wall.

                _Please be a dead end_. He thought, quickening his pace to a fast walk until he came to where the alleys joined.

                A quiet, defeated, " _Shit_ ," confirmed this, and he all that he could really feel was sympathy.

                _No where else for you to run, petite souris. It was fun while it lasted._

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, and exhaling through his nose, he swung around the corner, gun aimed.

                And then,

                darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea how i got this done so quickly, it usually takes me 40 years to get three sentences down, but, enjoy!


	3. Acte de Bienfaisance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm a seasick sailor  
> On a ship of noise  
> I got my maps all backwards  
> And my instincts poisoned
> 
> -Nausea, Beck

Marco's thoughts were in chaos; mind racing as his dark eyes flitted about the dark alley, probing it for a means of escape. The blood pounding in his ears muted all other sounds to him, making it easier to focus on the one and only thing that mattered to him right now;

Staying alive.

As he stood in panic, breaths coming out in short, erratic pants and stealing away what little he had to offer, he realized that his options were running thin; nowhere to run, or hide, no weapon, and no one within ear shot to help him.

He was fucked.

Big time.

Marco had never been this scared in his life. But then again, he had never had any reason to be. He lived a normal, sheltered life; he'd never been in any fights, never had any near death experiences, and though his father's high position and income had caused a lot of preconceived notions of him, he'd never had any enemy's. He'd always proven them wrong, determined not to be like all the other snot-nosed rich kids that he'd grown up around, thinking that they could do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted; treating people like garbage just for the simple fact of being in a higher class than most.

So all of _this_ , being chased by a fucking  _hit-man_ , of all things, was foreign to him. This sort of danger was something he had never once encountered in his short life. And the worst thing, despite the probability of him being dead within the hour, or minute, was that he didn't have the faintest idea why. What was it all for?

A splashing footstep on the other side of the wall snapped him from his thoughts, sending him back to the dizzying, spiraling terror, clawing at him and threatening to drag him down over the edge.

Desperate and clutching at straws, he spotted a large, glass whiskey bottle lying in a puddle at his feet, and snatched it up, clutching it so that his knuckles turned white.

There was no way in hell he was going out without a fight.

Sidling along the wall as far as he dared go, melding against the brick and clutching the bottle in one hand, he held his breath, listening as the person on the other side came to a stop as-well.

The sound of a gun reloading made his blood run cold, his grip on the glass tightening to the point that he thought it might crack under the pressure.

The seconds seemed to stretch on for hours, the silence weighing down over the alley becoming almost crushing.

Marco tensed as he heard a small, barely audible intake of breath, and before he even realized what was happening, the man was around the corner, seemingly appearing out of thin air. His cold, hooded eyes held no trace of emotion as he stared Marco down, gun trained directly at his head.

Before he had the chance to fire, however, Marco released a high pitched, girlish shriek (a sound that he would never admit to making, even on his death bed), squeezing his eyes shut as he swung the bottle at his pursuer's head.

A loud shattering resonated through the alley as the bottle hit its mark, shards of glass tinkling to the wet pavement like rain.

Dropping what was left of the broken, jagged weapon, he lurched backward, stumbling over his own feet in the process, and raised his hands in front of himself defensively, awaiting the sure sound of gun fire.

"Please don't kill me, please, _please_. I'm  _begging_  y-"

_Thump_

Pausing in his pleas, Marco pried one of his eyes open.

No one was there.

Straightening up and dropping his hands back to his sides, brows knit together in confusion, he glanced down; only to find his pursuer lying face down on the asphalt, a thin stream of blood trickling down his temple.

Marco's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

_I killed him._

Cautiously, he took a few steps toward the figure lying sprawled on the pavement before him, and after taking great care to kick the gun away from his reach, he gingerly nudged him with the toe of his sneaker, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

When he didn't move, Marco knelt beside him. His chest felt tight, breathing restricted as he stared down at the motionless form, blood now streaming down the side of his face in a steady, thick flow.

True, this man had, only moments ago, been intent on killing him. And also true, if he hadn't smashed that bottle against his head, he would more than likely be dead right now, unless by some miracle he'd had a last minute change of heart. But, no matter how horrible a human being, death and murder just didn't sit right with Marco. At least, not by his own hand, and the fact that he had probably just killed this person was making it hard to breathe, his eyes swimming. He felt like he was going to vomit.

When he saw the gentle rise and fall of his chest, indicating that he was, in fact, still alive, Marco released the breath that he hadn't realized he was holding in, nearly tumbling backward at the cold waves of relief washing over him.

Leaning in closer, he cautiously raised a hand, pausing before brushing his sticky, coffee coated hair, courtesy of Marco, from his eyes.

Well, he certainly didn't  _look_  like a cold blooded killer.

He was young; probably around Marco's age, and his unconscious state, his face was relaxed, cold expression from earlier absent, leaving him appearing almost child-like and peaceful.

Sighing, he slumped back against the pavement, leaning his back against the wall behind him and running a hand through his hair, leaving it sticky and wet. Blanching, he brought them to eye level, only to find the tips of his fingers red and smeared with blood.

Glancing up, he found that the man's hair was now dark and matted with it, the stream having not ceased in the slightest.

_I can't just leave him here... can I? I mean if I do he'll... he'll..._ _ die _ _._

Suddenly, his phone began buzzing within his pocket, accompanied by the short burst of his ring tone. Jolting to stand as the noise ripped its way through the once silent alley, Marco dug frantically in his pocket, eyes glued to the man as he hit accept.

_Please don't wake up._

"Hello?" He was pleased that his voice sounded much stronger than he felt, considering that his legs felt like jelly beneath him.

" _Marco_?"

_Oh shit oh shit oh shi_ \- "Oh, hey, Dad."

" _Where did you go? Did you get the papers filed like I asked_?"

Marco couldn't help but roll his eyes. Of all things, of course that would be what was on his mind, first and foremost. Not his child's safety, oh no. "Yes, Dad."

" _Good. Where are you? I'm on my way out now_."

"I'm... uh.." He glanced back down to the man that lay, possibly dying, at his feet.

He couldn't leave him here. He just couldn't. It didn't matter that he had wanted him dead, and had chased him through god knows how many flights of stairs just to accomplish that. What mattered was that there was a man in front of him, bleeding out, that needed immediate medical attention. And soon. How could he possibly live with himself if he just walked away from him now, and let him... die?

As he'd been reminded by his mother, nearly a million times throughout his childhood, two wrongs do not make a right. He had never believed in an eye for an eye, or revenge. What did it help? Besides, maybe, by the grace of God, when this man woke up in the hospital, alive, instead of lying face down, dead in some back abandoned alley way, he would reconsider his life style; make a change for the better, and hopefully not continue his pursuit on Marco.

But he couldn't just walk away from this; he refused. It wasn't his place to decide whether or not someone deserved to die.

"I'm with friends."

There was a brief silence on the other end, before, " _Don't stay out too late_." and then the line went dead. Marco sighed, shoving his phone back into his pocket.  _Ever caring, Dad._

Kneeling before the man once again, he exhaled through his nose, giving him a calculating once over.

_Now... how am I going to move you?_

* * *

Cold.

That was the first word that came to mind to describe how he felt, the second being uncomfortable.

He wasn't really sure where he was, or when the last time he had been conscious was, but what he did know was that there was a dull ache throbbing through his skull that was only growing in intensity with each passing second.

With a groan, he raised a hand to his face and let it rest on his forehead, which he found to be wrapped in a thick layer of gauze.

As he lay there, trying to grasp a memory that danced along the edges of his mind, just out of reach, and fending off the pain that started at his left temple, running all the way down to the base of his spine, he became vaguely aware of a slight rustling noise to his right.

Allowing his eyes to flutter open, and squinting against the searingly bright lights above him, the world came back into focus. He found himself staring at a white, unfamiliar ceiling, a pencil scratching away to his right. The smell of latex and sterility invaded his nose as he breathed in, making his heart sink to the depths of his stomach.

Hospital.

Eyes snapping fully open, Jean jerked upwards with a gasp, the room spinning for a moment before he was able to focus on the short, brunette nurse beside the bed, staring back at him with a startled expression.

"Hey, hey, easy, hun. Take it slow." He stared at her, only able to concentrate on the absence of a cool weight against his thigh.

_My gun. Where is my gun?_

The thought of his gun brought the sudden rush of memories from the night prior back to him, flooding his mind; memories of a chase, the dark haired son of the CEO, an alleyway, and the fall into darkness...

_**Shit.** _

Ripping the covers that had been placed over him away, he swung his legs to the side of the bed, viciously ripping the IV that had been taped to his arm off and flinging it to the side as he moved to stand.

The nurse was on him then, her hand against his chest, trying to gently force him back down onto the bed. Her eyes were wide, shocked at his behavior, but her voice betrayed none of it. "Hun, it's going to be ok. You just had a little bang on the head, but you're alright. You just need to rest."

As he raised his eyes to her, she flinched back slightly, away from the glare being leveled at her. "Time. What is the time?" his tongue felt sluggish and slow, unwilling to form words.

She paused, checking the watch strapped to her wrist. "Nine in the morning. Is something wrong, h-"

"There will be if you call me 'hun' one more time." She stared at him for a moment before backing off, going back to whatever she had been writing on the clip board in her hands.

As he made himself busy, checking for the whereabouts of his phone, the nurse spoke again, humor in her voice. "You know, if I were you, I would try to refrain from getting in anymore bar fights. It doesn't seem like they're your niche."

He glanced up, brows drawn together in confusion. "What?"

She smiled slightly, "You don't remember?" when he didn't reply, she continued. "From what I was told, you got caught in a drunken brawl last night, sweetie. You're very lucky the boy that was there was nice enough to bring you in. The wounds to your head, without treatment, could have very easily killed you. I'm not sure an ambulance would have made it there in time.." She paused for a minute, shaking her head. "That boy carried you all the way here by himself, can you believe that?"

"No. I can't." His eyes narrowed slightly.  _What kind of game is Bodt playing at?_

She seemed to not notice his tone, smiling warmly at some memory. "He was a sweet boy. Marco, I think he said his name was. Didn't stay long after he brought you here, though. Just long enough to make sure that you were going to be ok, and then said something about needing to get home before he just... ran off. It was the strangest thing, he- hey!"

He brushed past her, ignoring her grabbing hands and ministrations to try to get him back into bed, pushing the curtains out of the way that concealed his 'room' from the rest.

The hospital wasn't very big; probably something more along the lines of a family owned clinic, so it was short work finding the exit.

"You can't just le-"

It was warm outside. Well, warmer than it had been the day previous. The sun was out; shining down in beaming rays and setting the city alight with an almost summery glow. The sky was a pale blue; white, fluffy clouds scudding along lazily. It was peaceful.

Though Jean felt far from at peace.

What sort of medicine had they pumped through his veins while he had been unconscious? He felt numb; though apparently not numb enough to dull the pain. It was a slow, lagging feeling; like his actions were being delayed by a few seconds each time, neurotransmitters taking too long to relay their commands throughout his body.

He realized that he must look like hell; someone stumbling away from an accident, dazed and confused, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. Not right now. There were too many thoughts whirring around inside his head, making it hard to concentrate on much else.

Bodt had... saved his life. But why? Why had he found it appropriate to save someone's life, who had nearly taken his own? It just didn't add up. That wasn't the way people operated in this world, and Jean would know that better than anyone.

It was part of his job to study people; analyze the target before making the strike. And the one thing above all that he had learned about human-beings throughout the years could be chalked up to one simple fact; they were selfish creatures.

People didn't go out of their way for others. That just wasn't the way it worked; it was a dog eat dog world. And if they did, it was more than likely for an ulterior motive, and not just for the sake of the person they were lending a hand to; trying to better their image, or expecting something in return for their kind deed. It was a harsh, insincere world that they inhabited, but that was just the way it was. That was the way it had always been, and would always be.

So  _why_? What had he hoped to get out of saving Jean's life?

"Well, well, well. Look who  _finally_  decided to join the land of the living." Jean jerked his head up, being lost in a whirl of blurred colors and distorted scenery before everything slowly fell back into focus.  _Damn that fucking clinic._

"Jaeger?"

Eren leaned up away from the wall, his expression hard. "You let Bodt escape, and Robert is still alive. Did it occur to you  _once_  last night to do your job,  _at all_?"

Jean slowed, stopping in front of him. "Yeah. Though I was a bit busy, you know, being unconscious and all." He paused. "Come to think of it, why didn't they just send back up? Aka,  _you_."

"I have assignments to take care of, too, you know. Didn't have time to trail after you and clean up your mess, and neither did anyone else. We all have jobs to do, and that was yours; and boy did you  _royally_  fuck it up." Jean shouldered past him, finished listening. "If you're not going to do your job, then don't do it at all." He called to his back.

Jean stopped, turning on his heel. "Stuff it up your ass, Jaeger. I'm not in the mood for your shit today."

Eren smirked then, glancing up at Jean's forehead. "I'd say not. Looks like he got you pretty good, huh?" Suddenly remembering the thick layer of gauze wrapped around his skull, he tore it off, fighting a wince as it tugged on what felt to be stitches, and threw it off to the side and into a gutter, ignoring the bastard's poorly concealed snickering. " _Jesus_. Bested by a college student with absolutely no training in combat,  _or_  a real weapon, and  _you_  were the one holding a gun. Remind me again, why are you our top agent?"

" _Espèce de merde_. Did you just come here to laugh at me, or do you actually have something important to say?" He snapped. Eren trailed along beside him as he stalked off, hands clasped lazily behind his head.

" _Actually,_ I came to give you a message. From Rivaille, since he said he was too busy to deal with your brand of 'shitery' today."

"Well then spit it out, I don't have all day."

"Eager to go back home and hide, try to make yourself not feel like such a failure?"

Jean turned on him, eyes blazing. " _Listen_ -"

Eren's eyes narrowed as he took a step back, but grinned anyway, just for the simple fact of  _knowing_  it would irritate Jean. "Ooh, touchy, touchy. He said you need to take care of the Bodt's,  _both_  of them, tonight. He also said that if you didn't, he was going to shove his foot so far up your ass that you'll be shitting leather for 2 months."

_As eloquent as ever._

"That it?"

"Yup."

"Good." Splitting off onto a side street, Jean left Eren behind, glad to finally be rid of him. He swore to the ends of the earth that nothing,  _nothing_ , could get under his skin like that kid. He hadn't been so bad in the beginning. Jean had actually been sort of fond of him; he was determined, got straight to the point without much side-tracking, and had what it took to get the job done right, no questions asked. The two of them had even shared lunch together a few times. But that was  _before_  Rivaille had made the mistake of paying him one too many, very subtle, compliments. Bastard let it go to his head, and now he thought of himself as some sorta fucking prodigy.

Pushing the thoughts aside, he concentrated on getting home. He needed to re-equip, seeing as his gun was missing, and prepare; get to work on scoping out the Bodt Residence. This needed to be done, preferably as soon as possible, so he could put this whole ordeal behind him.

Nine years. Never in _nine fucking years_ of employment had he  _ever_ fucked up this badly. He'd always found a way to patch it up, right then and there, and correct his mistakes, and that was why he had been named top agent by none other than Rivaille himself.

And now, he had some twenty year old college student, no doubt holed up inside his place of residence in fear, that knew his face.

He knew his fucking  _face_ , and it would be  _so_  easy for him to turn that information over to the cops.

Sudden images of his face being plastered on some 'Most Wanted' website filled his mind, having to hide his face from the crowd, unable to walk to streets freely, slinking around in back alleyways like a coward. He ground his teeth together, jaw flexing in anger

No. He wasn't going to let that happen. Not again; not after everything.

He was going to put an end to this. Tonight.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better late than never, right? School's been crazy lately, what with the end of the year exams and overflow of work, so I haven't been able to get much writing done. But good news is, it'll be over really soon, and then I'll have tons more time to work on this, and probably start making the chapters a lot longer! ((Though this one ended up being a bit over a thousand more than the last ehehe))
> 
> Thanks for the bookmarks, kudos, and comments! It all means more than you know. I promise I'll try to start closing up the gaps a little between update times, putting more effort into it and all that jazz.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Espèce de merde :: Piece of shit


	4. Deuxième Essai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serpents in my mind  
> Looking for your crimes  
> Everything changes  
> I don't want mine to this time
> 
> -Sharon Van Etten

Marco sighed; letting the book he'd been 'reading' fall forward and hit his chest, and fixing his eyes on the white ceiling above. There was no point in even trying anymore, especially since he'd been reading the same sentence for several minutes now. He couldn't remember what it said, even though he must have reread it at least a dozen times over. He just couldn't seem to shake the feeling that he had made a terrible mistake.

_Should_ he have saved that man's life...?

...Yes; he couldn't start doubting his actions now. It had been the right thing to do, and if he had to do it over again, he knew he would make the same choice; he'd never be able to take someone's life. Besides, it was way too late for second thoughts. What's done is done, and he'd just have to live with the decisions he had made.

Though... perhaps it would have been smart to call the police after leaving the clinic...

He knew now that it would have been the most obvious course of action to take. Honestly, who _wouldn't_ after nearly being murdered? But, as weird as it sounded, he had a feeling that even if he had, it wouldn't have done any good; that there would have been no trace of the man when they arrived. And what's more, what if he found out that Marco had called the police, and came after him for _that_? Putting aside the fact that he just might decide to anyway.

Needless to say, he was terrified; everything was beginning to feel like a hopeless, never ending loop. Like he was just running in circles and dragging this on, with no real way out.

After arriving home last night, try as he might, he just couldn't fall asleep. Every sound he heard had had him squeaking in fear and pointing the gun he'd 'borrowed' from his new-found admirer in every direction. Not that he had any idea how to use it, mind you. It just made him feel a little safer to have around.

But maybe... maybe if he just kept his mouth shut; put it behind him and acted as though it had never happened, the guy would be... grateful? Marco did know his face, after all. It would be so easy to turn him in; have a sketch artist draw him up and make his identity known to the public. Being the son of his father, it wouldn't take long for word to spread throughout the city like wildfire; he could see the headlines now. The media would have a field day with it.

But the thought did little to comfort him; he couldn't help but feel that he was being a little naive. This guy, whoever he was, was obviously trained in what he did, and as much as Marco hated the thought of it, he wasn't so sure that something as small as being thankful would stop him from accomplishing the job he had been given.

Which, apparently, was to end Marco's existence.

Marco whined, sinking down lower onto the bed and dragging a pillow over his face.

_Why me? What did I do? _

He wanted to stop thinking about it. His brain was fried through and through, with nothing more to run on than two hours of sleep and a few cans of Monster, though the shitty buzz had long since passed. Now the only thing he could feel was a dull throbbing throughout his skull, brain no doubt begging him to get some rest. The exhaustion was returning with vengeance, packing a potent punch after having been delayed for so long. It was falling over him like a thick, suffocating blanket, making it harder and harder to keep his chin from dropping against his chest, and eyelids from drooping.

But, regardless, his mind set to work again, forcing him to relive each moment of the nightmare that he had somehow managed to survive. The same feeling of terror sank into the pit of his stomach as he realized just how close he had been to dying. If the man hadn't paused, kept his trigger finger still as he swung to face Marco, who had unintentionally snuck up on him, he would be dead right now; his body being zipped up in some blue body bag and shoved into a freezer until it could be further examined.

But why had he _paused_? From Marco's limited knowledge on the subject, wouldn't it have been natural instinct to shoot at something after being surprised? After all, he had to have already been pretty high-strung; tense, stance hunched criminally as he had been reaching out for...

Marco sat bolt upright, pillow falling away from his face. His eyes were wide, breath caught in his throat as the realization hit him like a speeding truck.

He had never been the target at all; it was his _dad_.

_How did I not see it until now?_

He'd merely just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. If he hadn't; if he had actually gone to the lobby instead of settling for something closer, he wouldn't be in this mess. But, his dad would be.. d-

His mind halted, stopping the train of thought before it could finish itself, and instead, skipping to another.

Marco had seen his face; he knew his identity now, and was more than capable of using that against him. Someone like him wouldn't just simply stop. No, it was a threat that needed to be eradicated, and quickly. And that was why-

Marco had already, rightfully, been on edge; nerves frayed and thin, paranoid that each time he looked over his shoulder when on a mission to retrieve another energy drink from the fridge, he'd find someone behind him, murderous intent in their sharp, amber eyes. So when his bedroom door slammed open, suddenly and without warning, banging unceremoniously against the wall, it had been a completely reasonable response to scream bloody murder and make a break for the other end of his room, scrambling across the surface of his bed.

"Christ, Marco, what's gotten into you? It's just me."

At the familiar sight of their housekeeper, Lucile, striding into his room, he relaxed, clutching one hand over his heart and releasing a shaky breath.

" _Holy shit_."

She only smiled, saving the scolding that she usually gave him for his colorful vocabulary, and dropped the hamper of clothes she'd been packing in her arms to the floor. Wiping at her brow, she cast a despairing glance around his messy room, before turning her gaze to him "Sorry, I just needed to get these clothes up here. Laundry rooms' full again. How two men can go through so many clothes in the span of a week, I'll never know."

He smiled weakly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I could've done that, you know." He spoke, gesturing at the folded pile.

She waved a dismissive hand at him, bending to drag the hamper over towards his closet to hang them. "Please, Marco. It's my job, don't act like it's an unnecessary burden. This is what your father _pays_ me to do."

"Still," He shrugged, perching on the edge of his bed. "It wouldn't kill me to help out. I don't have anything better to do. Besides, it'd probably get my mind off of-"

He cut himself off, clenching his jaw together. There was no reason to bring Lucile into this. The less she knew, the better. The last thing he wanted was to have to be worrying about her safety as-well.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Raising his eyes, he found that Lucile's were on him, regarding him with something between a mix of concern and curiosity. He shook his head, perhaps a little too quickly, and cast her what he hoped to be a reassuring smile.

"It's nothing, just school stuff. Nothing important." She narrowed her eyes, looking none too convinced, but turned anyway, resuming her task. After a moment he stood, working to keep his tone casual "Hey, is Dad in his study? I need to talk to him."

"No, he called a few hours ago to say he'd be late getting home again. Something about a meeting, I don't know, was hard to hear him over the dryer. I swear, that's all that man does. He's going to end up working himself into an early grave."

Marco swallowed thickly, hands clenching into tight fists at his side. He managed a weak laugh, nodding his agreement, before he quickly excused himself to the hall, closing the door tightly behind him.

By now, the meeting was more than likely long over, leaving his father alone in the building. Save for the security, which did nothing to soothe Marco's frantic mind. What good had they done the other night?

_Jack shit, that's what._

It was the perfect opportunity to take him out. And this time, Marco wouldn't be in the way.

His fingers flew across the screen of his phone, desperately searching out his father's name amongst the contacts. When he found what he was looking for, he slammed his finger down on the name before raising it to his ear.

The dial tone seemed stretch out forever, and Marco paced restlessly, heart thumping in his chest.

"Come on. Come on, come on, come o-"

" _Robert Bodt_ -"

"Dad, I-"

" _Sorry you couldn't reach me, but if you leave your name and numb_ -"

Without missing a beat, he ended the call, searching out the next best thing.

" _Hello_?"

"Krista! _Thank god_. Listen, I know it's late, I'm really sorry, but it's an emergency. I need-"

" _Whoa, whoa, Marco. Slow down. What's wrong? Did something happen_?"

"Yes. Well, no. At least not yet. Are you at home?"

" _No, I'm at the office with Rob. There was a meeting and.. Marco, what_ -"

"I think he might be in danger."

There was a pause.

" _What do you mean exactly_? "

"I.. I can't really explain, Krista, I'm sorry. I know I must sound crazy, or paranoid, or all of the above right now, but.. can you go check on him? Please?"

" _Of course, Marco. Hold on_."

The muted sound of Krista's heels on the tiled floor, a door opening, faint voices, and then a crackle as she returned the phone to her ear.

" _He's here. Same place I left him_."

Marco sighed, leaning against the wall behind him for support as relief washed over him in a cold wave, leaving him limp. "He's ok." he breathed, letting his tired eyes slide closed.

" _He's ok_ ," She assured her voice soft in his ear. " _Now, will you tell me what's going on? Why do you think he's in trouble? What exactly happened_?"

"I... It would take too long to explain, and I would sound like I've gone insane. Trust me." He paused, worrying his lip between his teeth. "Would it be too much to hope for that you could convince him to come home?"

She sighed into the phone, the static filling Marco's ear. " _Marco.. you know he wouldn't, no matter what I told him. He's right in the middle of all of this. He would just lecture me and say that security was downstairs and then dive right back in_."

Marco ran a hand through his hair, leaning back against the wall. She was right; he'd tried more than once, but it was near impossible to tear that man away from his work once he'd began.

"Ok.. well.. Will you stay with him then? Keep an eye on him? And make sure Howard is there too. I know he carries a gun and.. it would just make me feel a lot better knowing that he has people there with him. To, you know, look out for him."

_"Actually, Howard isn't here tonight, he clocked out at some point when his wife went into labor. But there's a new guy here that's filling in for him, Bertholdt I think he said his name was. So I'll page him up here_." She paused for a moment, phone picking up the sound of papers being shuffled. " _It's all going to be alright, just breathe_."

Marco nodded slowly, relaxing, before he remembered that Krista couldn't see him. "Alright, thank you, Krista. It really means a lot to me. I-I just don't want anything to happen to him."

" _I know, Marco. You should get some rest, you sound exhausted._ "

He nodded again, the heaviness of his lids returning. "Yeah, I will. And am."

" _Goodnight, Marco_."

"Night', Krista. Thanks again."

* * *

 

The Bodt Residence was silent; each window lining the exterior dark, curtains drawn for the night. Everyone within the household had long since fallen asleep, oblivious to the eminent danger that lay in wait, just outside.

Jean stood across the street, leaned against a flickering light post, eyes occasionally scanning the deserted road before returning to the dimmed screen in his hand.

Probably not the best time to be surfing the web, but what the hell else was he supposed to do? The call should have been made an hour ago, but still he'd received no word for the go ahead. It was slightly worrying.

Maybe something had gone wrong? Maybe Bodt had done what he did best and stuck his nose, or rather, presence, where it didn't belong yet again.

He didn't see how he could have slipped out without him noticing, but after the events preceding last night, he wouldn't doubt it in the least.

After scrolling through a few scores of meaningless babble and updates for various cases on the message board reserved for the agency, he shoved his phone into his back pocket, opting to instead make another round around the house. What was this, the tenth time?

By the time he'd reached the front of the house, a familiar click sounded from his ear piece, signaling that someone had come online. He slowed his strides, coming to a stop near the wooden railing of the porch.

" _It's time_." The voice was hushed and laced with the crackle of static. Jean ground his teeth together, adjusting the volume. _They really need to upgrade these damn things_.

"Things on your end?"

" _In motion_."

"Good. The sooner this is over, the better."

" _You know these things take time, Jean_."

"Yeah, well, that doesn't mean I have to enjoy it."

There was a sound on the other side of the line that might have been a sigh. " _Just wait for Armin to call you, okay_?"

He rolled his eyes at her tone, but agreed. "Yeah, okay."

There was a moment of silence, and he'd thought she'd hung up on him, but the voice crackled in again. " _Jean_?"

He paused, hand on the railing. "Yeah?"

" _Good luck_."

He snorted. "You know I don't need it."

" _Yeah, yeah. Of course you don't_."

He listened as she went offline before turning to lean against the column behind him with a sigh, tilting his head back to gaze at the stars above.

There weren't very many visible tonight; only a few with a stronger shine than the others, straining to be seen through the dark rain clouds hanging heavy in the sky.

An ill omen.

Jean frowned at the thought, lacing his hands behind his head. Maybe this was his sign that things were about to get unnecessarily shitty.

Again.

_Fan-fucking-tastic. Can't wait._

" _Jean_?"

Said man stood from his post, dropping his hands back to his sides. "It's about damn time, Armin. Where have you been?"

" _Bertholdt's on assist, as you know, and he's the only other person besides me that knows how to do this. I'm the only one here, and things got kind of hectic. Sorry to keep you waiting_."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. I have a hot date with my coffee pot tonight, so let's just get on with this."

Armin snorted, a smile in his voice. " _Ooh, scandalous. Alright, address_?"

"383 Rosewood Dr."

" _Oookay, gotcha. I'm beginning the system scan now, hang on_."

Jean huffed, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket to ward off the cold that was beginning to sink into his skin. "That's what I've been doing all night, Armin, and in case you haven't noticed, I'm not the best at sitting pretty."

" _Yeah_ ," Eren's voice cut in, appearing from god knows where, " _that's because you're ugly as fuck_."

" _Eren_!" Armin hissed, a poorly concealed laugh in his voice. " _How did you even get on this line, you're supposed to be_ -"

" _Non_ , mais tu te fous de moi, enfoiré?! Si je suis considéré comme étant moche, alors toi tu fais pleurer des mômes rien qu'en te pointant dans des lieux publics! Ta mère aurait dû t'avaler, _connard_!"

There was a moment of silence from all ends of the line, not even the crackle of breathing.

" _Oh_ ," Eren said finally, breaking the hush that had settled over them. " _my god. I think I finally broke him this time_." The words were followed by his shrill, obnoxious laughter, and Jean cursed loudly, slamming his hand down over the ear piece.

"Jesus fuck, Eren. Are you shi-"

" _Guys_!" Armin snapped, abruptly shutting them both up. " _Jean, you can strangle Eren later_ ,-"

" _Armin?! I can't belie_ -"

" _but right now, we have work to do. This needs to get done. Now_."

"I don't know why you're preaching at _me_ ," Jean retorted, massaging his temples. "Why don't you cram that shit down someone else's throat, preferably your boyfri-"

" _Jean_." Armin warned, tone deadly. Jean snapped his mouth shut, scowling at the door. " _Alright, the camera's are officially down, and the alarm system should be disabled in four... three... two...alright, you're clear. Good luck, Jean_."

" _Yeah, he's gonna nee_ -"

The ear pieced fizzled with static for a moment, before clicking to signal that all parties had gone offline. Jean smiled to himself, retrieving the lock pick from one of the many pockets adorning his cargo pants. He'd have to thank Armin for that little stunt later.

But right now, there we're more important things on his plate.

Namely, Marco Bodt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> I have absolutely no excuse for how long this took me. I got out of school for the summer and was just completely uninspired to write for awhile and spent an unhealthy amount of time doing fuck all and not being productive at all.
> 
> Anyways, thank you so much for reading and keeping up with such a sporadic writer, and I hope you liked it! I apologize for any grammatical errors made and such. I literally did all of this in one night and I'm dead on my feet.
> 
> Translations ; Are you fucking kidding me, you bastard?! If I'm considered ugly, then you could probably make children cry just by showing your face in public! Your mom should've swallowed you, you fucker!
> 
> ((SSTT I HAVE A TUMBLR > > > nuitechi ))


	5. Escapade Nocturne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am nothing without pretend  
> I know my faults  
> Can't live with them  
> I am nothing without a man  
> I know my thoughts  
> But I can't hide them

                " _D-dad? Mom_?"

               

                The house was dark; not even the dim hallway light that his parents kept on during the night illuminating the empty corridor.

                Jean was afraid.

                He'd awoken to the sound of a scream.

                Or, at least, he thought he had. By the time he'd fully woken up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and casting a nervous glance around his bedroom, everything had fallen silent again, leaving him to wonder if he'd only dreamed it. But, the thought hadn't been enough to make him shrug it off and fall back asleep.

                So now, here he stood, at the end of the hall just outside of his bedroom, gazing down the long corridor that led to his parents room.

                He tried the lights, reaching a hand up and flicking them on and off again, with no results. The power was out.

                Swallowing thickly, mouth suddenly dry, he took a few quiet steps forward, taking care to avoid the places he knew would give him away.

                It was familiar to all the times when he'd been younger, and would awake in the middle of the night to find his closet door cracked just so, enough for a tiny slit of darkness to be visible. He'd never been able to find the courage to close it himself, though, fearful that he'd just be playing into the will of whatever was lurking on the other side, waiting for him to make a move as stupid as that.

                So, as was normal routine, he would crawl out of bed and scurry out of his room, instantly being doused in the comforting light that the hall provided, and make a break for his parents bedroom.

                Though, each time before opening it and peering inside, calling out to his parent's, he'd always have that age old fear that whatever was on the other side of that door, he wouldn't like. That whatever had sent him fleeing from his room, would have already gotten to them, and that he would be next.

                Jean was too old to believe in monsters, now; beings that preyed on children, hiding under beds or within the darkest of corners, waiting for the unsuspecting to fall asleep and drag them away into the darkness. They were nothing more than fables, conjured up by over-active imaginations running wild. But he knew something wasn't right. He could feel it.

 

* * *

 

                 People look a lot different when they're asleep. Younger.

                All the worries, thoughts, stress that plague them throughout the day void from their sleeping minds. In sleep, they aren't dealing with their usual, everyday struggles, allowing themselves to become blissfully unaware of the reality that awaits them in wakefulness.

                Jean had always envied people who slept easily. People who were less tortured by their minds in sleep than they were when awake. It wasn't like that for him, his dreams were merciless. At least while awake, he could fend off the thoughts. The memories. The constant reminder of what he was, and all the lives he'd torn apart. But in sleep, it wasn't something he could get away from. He was tainted by every misdoing, every lie, every face he'd have to watch as the light slowly faded from their eyes.

                He lied to himself while awake, or just avoided the truth all together. But that wasn't something that sleep allowed, no matter how many pills he crammed down his throat. You can't hide from yourself in your dreams.

                Marco looked so peaceful.

                He was sleeping soundly, clutching the covers to his frame, his dark, mussed hair standing out against the stark white of the pillow. A small, relaxed smile adorned his tanned face, barely visible in the dim light that the moonlight provided. But it was still there.

                Jean wondered what he dreamed about.

                The ear piece crackled back to life.

                " _Target has been eliminated. Heading back now_."

                The update snapped Jean back to reality, reminding him just exactly what he was here for, and why there was a loaded gun clasped in his hand.

                To finish the job.

                What had happened to him? Only moments ago, he'd been prepared. Mind cleared and ready to take on the task at hand, all thoughts crammed into that dusty, disused corner of his brain that he so often tried to avoid.

                But now...?

                He was here, the gun was in his hand, and his target was defenseless against him. Oblivious. It would be so easy to take him out. He was asleep, for Christ's sake. You could even look at it as being merciful. He wouldn't have to feel anything, this way. Quick and painless.

                Yet- he still couldn't pull the trigger. He was hesitating, just like last night.

                And for what?

                He'd read Marco Bodt's file, just before departing to the estate. He hadn't bothered with it previously, because he didn't think he'd ever encounter him. It was supposed to be an in an out job, so he'd only studied Robert.

                Marco was one of those people that Jean would never be able to understand, no matter how hard he tried. That was saying a lot, considering it was half of his job description to do so. According to the file, he did every thing ranging from volunteer work, to helping old women across the street. And what's more, unlike most of the rich fat cats that inhabited this earth, wasting their wealth on themselves, a good chunk of his money went towards things like charities, and donating to the less fortunate.

                He was one of those people that were genuinely _good_ , and performed kind deeds even when it wasn't directly beneficial to themselves.

                So why was it that he, a killer, a _murderer_ , was allowed to live and go free, while this guy, this fucking saint who was basically the human embodiment of the word ' _good_ ', had to die?

                ' _It's a dog eat dog world out there, Jean.'_ His father's voice echoed to him then. _'The weak can't, and won't, survive. It can only be the one's who are willing to do whatever it takes to make it. Remember that_.'

Flexing his jaw, he took a step forward, shins brushing the edge of Marco's bed.

                Even if he didn't like it; even if he would end up hating himself just _that_ much more for what he was about to do, it had to be done. Or _he_ would be done.

                Lightly, he pressed the muzzle of his gun against Marco's temple, gritting his teeth together.

                _Come on, Kirschtein,_ He thought, eyes sliding closed. _You can't fuck this up twice. Come on._

Finger hooked around the trigger, he took a deep breath to steel himself, and let his gaze fall onto the sleeping man before him once again.

                Only now, a set of _very_ awake eyes returned his gaze, wide and glinting in the moonlight.

                His own widened a fraction, and he was rooted to the spot.

                _Fuck_

The silence stretched out between them, Jean staring at Marco in surprise, and Marco staring at Jean in confusion, which quickly melded into fear.

                He didn't move for a long time, and neither did Marco.

                Until he did.

                The whirlwind of thoughts wreaking havoc in Jean's brain came to a screeching halt as Marco tore away from the gun, lurching backwards and slamming himself against the wall, and into the furthest corner of his bed.

                And suddenly, there was a gun in his hand, seemingly appearing out of thin air.

                "S-stay back!" He blurted, voice trembling. "I'll shoot! I swear!"

                The gun was quaking between his hands, finger shaky on the trigger, and Jean knew it was a front. Marco Bodt just didn't have what it took to take a life.

                "Then you might want to turn the safety off." He spoke, voice low and even.

                There was a flicker in his expression, and he paused, eyes shifting down to the gun before tearing back up to Jean.

                The click of the safety being switched filled the air.

                Jean didn't move, and hadn't for awhile. And though his gun remained poised front of him, he knew, without conviction, that he wouldn't be able to do it. He couldn't kill Marco Bodt. Not when everything within him was screaming against it, forcing his hand, as if by its own accord, to drop back down to his side.

                Marco's eyes widened at this, but he kept his own readied, observing Jean with confusion, and a significant amount of suspicion.

                "You're going to kill me." It sounded more like a question than a statement, his expression unsure.

                Jean stared back at him before speaking, lips pressed into a thin line.

                "No."

                There was a beat of silence, and the man before him seemed to consider lowering his own gun. Though, he didn't. Not yet.

                "You're lying."

                Jean opted not to answer, instead tucking the weapon back into its holster.

"T-then.." Marco's arm relaxed slightly, easing the gun a few inches down, and away from Jean.

                His instincts screamed at him to lunge. His defenses were dropping, it was the perfect opportunity.

                Yet he stayed where he was, remaining motionless.

                "Why are you here?"

                No reply, only the crackle of static.

                " _Jean, status report_."

                Jean stared at Marco through the darkness, air tense between them. Again, he considered just getting it over with, and heading back. Then, everyone would be none the wiser of his second slip up in two days. But that was just too much to hope for. Every shred of determination he'd possessed had flown straight out the window the second Bodt had opened his eyes. It was over.

                Pressing a finger to the piece, Jean kept his eyes on Marco, jaw clenched.

                "Target eliminated."

                _What the fuck am I doing..?_

Marco snapped the gun upwards again at the words, expression torn between uncertainty and terror.

                " _Heading back_?"

                "No. Don't wait up."

                " _Don't forget to update the fi_ -"

                "I know."

                " _Alright. Goodnight, Jean_."

                As they signed off, Jean dropped his hand back to his side, and for once in his life, he was utterly at a loss.

                What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

                His target was still here, alive and well, and not lying dead with a bullet in his brain as he should be. If the agency found out, it would be over for him. It was no secret that defective agents that were of no use were disposed of. One you're in, you're in, and there is only one way to terminate a contract.

                They could never find out about Marco Bodt.

                He made quick work of shutting off the device strapped to his ear, and shoved it deep into his pocket. There would be questions tomorrow as to why he'd gone completely offline, but it was nothing he couldn't deal with. If there was one thing that Jean prided himself on, it was the ability to lie straight through his teeth, without so much as batting an eye. But then again, with his job description, if you weren't skilled in deceit, you were a dead man walking.

                "Looks like today's your lucky day, Bodt."

                Marco only stared in response.

                "You need to leave. If they realize you're still alive, you'll be right back at square one. I suggest making use of your daddy's money and making a break for it. Maybe Spain, I've heard it's nice this time of year."

                "I.." Marco lowered the gun again, frowning. "I don't understand."

                Jean sighed in irritation, running a hand over his face. "I'm not sure how to put it in any simpler terms. Perhaps sign language will do the trick?" Marco seemed undeterred by his sarcasm, which was a first. Usually it was easy to get a rise out of nearly anyone with his shit attitude. But then again, Bodt wasn't half of the human population. "You," He pointed a finger at him, words slow and precise as if he were talking to an infant. "need to leave." the finger was directed at the door, and Marco followed it with his eyes, remaining silent. "Soon. Or you're going to die."

                Slowly, he seemed to piece it together, and Jean could almost see the gears in his head spinning. "You're..." He paused, casting his gaze to the floor in thought, before flicking it back up to Jean, brows drawn together. "You're letting me go?"

                "Consider this me repaying my debt."

                "Debt?"

                "You scratch my back, I scratch yours, yeah? You didn't let me die in some dank, musty alley, so I'm giving you a free card to get the hell out of here."

                "But.. you were.. When I woke up, your gun was-"

                "Listen, Bodt. We can sit here and talk in circles all night, but the clock is ticking. You don't have long before they send someone to sweep the area."

                Marco fell silent again, looking down at his hands. It was silent between them for a moment.

                "Where will I go?"

                "Doesn't matter, as long as it's far. Would probably be in your best interest register under a fake ID as well."

                "I-I don't know how to do that."

                Jean ran a hand down over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're going to make me do everything, aren't you?" Casting a quick glance around the room, he spotted a suitcase, messily tucked under a mountain of clothes and school books, just within the edge of his closet. He was going to regret this.

                "Pack your shit."

                "Wh-"

                "Look, you've already wasted too much time as is. So if you want to live, you're going to have to listen to me."

                "How do I know you're not going to kill me the second I stand up?"

                Jean smirked, resting a hand on his hip. "Trust me, if I wanted you dead, you would be. Now move."

                Marco stared dumbly back at him for a few more seconds before rising shakily from the bed, gun forgotten in the mass of covers.

                While he set to work on hastily shoving clothes and what ever else was of value to him into the case, Jean retrieved the gun from the bed, eyeing it.

                "Is this my gun?"

                Marco snapped his head towards him, freezing. "Um.. yeah. You dropped it in the alley, and I... I took it."

                Jean snorted, returning his gaze to the weapon before sliding it into his jacket.

                _So that's where it went. Should have guessed._

It took a surprisingly short amount of time for Marco to finish packing, and soon they were making their way down the long, winding staircase. Marco kept a wide distance between himself and Jean, and each time he turned to make sure Marco was still there, the man eyed him back warily, still not completely convinced that this wasn't some elaborate ruse.

                When they finally reached first floor, nearing the door, he stopped, and Jean looked over his shoulder, holding the door open for him.

                "What now?"

                Marco bit his lip, casting his gaze upwards. "The.. the cameras, wont they-"

                Jean waved a hand, holding the door open a bit wider. His patience was beginning to wear thin. "Everything's down. How do you think I got in?"

                Marco only offered a quietly spoken ' _oh_ ' before edging past him and through the open doorway.

               

* * *

 

                "Was the blindfold absolutely necessary?"

                "Yes."

                Marco heaved a sigh, reaching up a hand to tug at the torn cloth tied tightly around his head, but thin fingers stopped him, jerking it back down into his lap.

                He had no idea where they were going, as the man had avoided the question all together, only telling him that where they were going, he would be safe. He really hadn't had any other choice but to trust him, and hope that whatever the outcome of this situation was, he wouldn't come to regret allowing this man to blindfold him and all but shove him into the car.

                The one thing he was sure about was that they had been driving for nearly thirty minutes, and the sounds of night life that he had become so accustomed to from the city had slowly begun to fade out, nothing but the hum of the engine between them now.

                "I don't even know your name, you know."

                "Jonathan Smith. Or Jon, if you prefer. It doesn't matter to me." He spoke without even missing a beat, as if he'd rehearsed the line dozens of times. It was too quick. Too practiced.

                Marco snorted despite himself, dragging one hand over his face in exasperation. "Jon Smith? Honestly? You couldn't come up with anything better than _that_?"

                "What are you-"

                "I'm not stupid, so don't treat me like I am." He snapped, instantly regretting doing so. He was exhausted, and irritable, and the urge to become angry was almost impossible to ignore. He had every reason to be, but also had to keep in mind that his life was now in the hand's of this thus far nameless man. Marco was in dangerous, unfamiliar waters right now, and he needed to tread lightly.

                "Look," He started again after he'd received no reply, watching the muted street lights pass by in a blur through the thin material. "you don't have to tell me your name, but please, don't lie through your teeth to me. I think I at least deserve a little honesty from you, after everything."

                The silence that encased the car then was thick and uncomfortable, and Marco was getting the feeling that he had crossed over a line that he shouldn't have. If he pushed this man past his already limited patience, there was no telling what could happen to him. If he didn't start biting his tongue, he was almost certain that he would end up dead, body probably thrown into a ditch on the side of the road before morning ever came.

                Biting his lip, he shifted in his seat, trailing his fingertips across the sleek material of the seat-belt.

                The driver's side of the car remained silent.

                He couldn't understand why this man had saved his life. The explanation that he had provided him with didn't seem to make much sense.

                Why would an assassin, who has more than likely murdered countless people in cold blood, worry himself with something as small and unimportant as that?

                It just didn't add up, and he was beginning to feel as though there was more to this than he was willing to share. Why would this man, who had been so intent on killing him less than 24 hours ago, suddenly have changed his mind? What would have caused him to make such a drastic decision in such a short period of time, just to save Marco's life? He was sure that compared to the importance of the task, his life was more than insignificant.

                Exhaling, he leaned his head against the head rest, attempting to push the thoughts aside.

                Maybe there wasn't any use in thinking about it. Whatever this man's reasoning was, Marco wasn't dead. And hopefully, seeing as this guy seemed to be the one on this assignment, his father wasn't either. Besides, Krista had been up there with him. She was a smart woman, and there wasn't a doubt in his mind that she would have done anything it took to keep him safe. He'd known her for years, after all, so of that, he was sure that his father's life was in good hands.

                Perhaps it was a little naive of him to believe that everything was fine, but he couldn't think about it. He couldn't think about the possibility that while he was here, safe and sound and being personally escorted to some... _safe house_ , that his father had been murdered.

                And he hadn't been able to stop it.

                It was too much. He had to believe in something, or he was going to break.

                "Jean."

                Marco started at the sudden sound of his voice, shattering the tense silence that had settled over the car. He twisted his head in the general direction of the driver's side, just barely resisting the urge to tug at the blindfold again.

                "Wha-"

                "My name is Jean Kirschtein."

                Marco remained silent for a moment, trying to make out his face through the thin cloth that was concealing his vision. But it was no use, the street lights had long since faded behind them, and wherever they were now, it was well out of city limits. It was so dark.

                _Jean Kirschtein._

When he did speak, his voice was soft, just barely able to be heard over the low, continuous hum of the engine. "Thank you."

                Neither of them spoke for a long time after that, but it was different than before. The silence that fell between them now was almost comfortable.

                Marco's palms were no longer sweating, body tense at each sound that resonated from the opposite side of the car, anticipating his death which had seemed inevitable only moments ago.

                Just as he was beginning to feel a little safer, relaxing his tense muscles against the comfortable leather seat, the car suddenly jerked to a stop, tires skidding on what sounded to be gravel, and Marco had to catch himself on the dashboard to keep upright.

                The man, who he had learned was named Jean, spoke before he could ask, voice accompanied by the sound of jingling keys being pulled from the ignition.

                "We're here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im actually really happy with the way this came out
> 
> hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!
> 
> (i have a tumblr)

**Author's Note:**

> WIP. I thought I'd just go ahead and post the beginning of it while I finished the first chapter.  
> hope you enjoyed!


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